I begin writing this on the train. I haven't been on for more than a minute yet I feel sweat trickling down my body.
This is normal on the London underground.
This is normal on the London underground.
Today has been a weird day, largely due to my day at the Gardens of Peace cemetery in Redbridge.
***
As we are driving up there, I feel a sense of fear. Fear for this brutal wake up call but also fear of how physically close I will be to death.
We enter the main hall and there's chatter everywhere - a greeting here, a friendly smile there - perhaps the occasional awkward eye contact. Things are normal. In the sense that we are complaining about the weather, the sudden numbness that has captured our toes. We huddle around the heater, whispering why the refreshments are situated on the men's side...
(Male and females are segregated as this is a holy site)
The man who runs the cemetery introduces today's event - an educational day on the rituals of Islamic burials, and also a spiritual reminder for those too attached to this world. I am guilty because i am one of 'those'.
I don't like the facts that he is giving us... I don't like death. He has a South African accent, , quite like my primary school teacher, but soon this is rectified. My friend confirms it is Indian, although I am certain that it is South African. A couple gender equality jokes are dropped, the mood is lifted. Only briefly.
I don't like the facts that he is giving us... I don't like death. He has a South African accent, , quite like my primary school teacher, but soon this is rectified. My friend confirms it is Indian, although I am certain that it is South African. A couple gender equality jokes are dropped, the mood is lifted. Only briefly.
"The cemetery is filling up."
"The cemetery is almost full" he reminds us. Foetuses, babies, children, adults and the elderly - they are all filling up the cemetery. Death is not age bound. I feel sad. I am confused. Why children? Why babies? Foetuses too... My mind shifts into a different space.
Perhaps death is necessary. These mere corpses are at least at peace, away from the chaos and sadness in this world.
Syria, Palestine, Yemen and Somalia - just a few of the countries where innocent civilians are oppressed by their governments and terrorist groups.
These corpses - they are the lucky ones, saved from the bitterness of the world. It is true! They are better off dying with pure, innocent souls than having to battle with the forces of evil.
"The cemetery is almost full" he reminds us. Foetuses, babies, children, adults and the elderly - they are all filling up the cemetery. Death is not age bound. I feel sad. I am confused. Why children? Why babies? Foetuses too... My mind shifts into a different space.
Perhaps death is necessary. These mere corpses are at least at peace, away from the chaos and sadness in this world.
Syria, Palestine, Yemen and Somalia - just a few of the countries where innocent civilians are oppressed by their governments and terrorist groups.
These corpses - they are the lucky ones, saved from the bitterness of the world. It is true! They are better off dying with pure, innocent souls than having to battle with the forces of evil.
I am brought back to reality when he announces (finally), the females can join the other side and have refreshments before the lesson on the burial process.
The room bursts into chatter once again whilst everyone queues up for the warmth of hot beverages. There are crisps at the coffee station, but i realise i am too late. Prawn cocktail is gone, so i settle for salt and vinegar and half a cup of coffee.
The room smells of coffee - it overfills and dominates the insides of my nose. I metally laugh, noting the irony of the strong smell of freshness and alertness which juxtaposes with the earthly smell of death just meters away.
There are a group of females delivering this session - three demonstrating the process of preparing the body for burial and a lecturer. Strangely, I am drawn to how soothing her voice is. She is so calm, approaching each word with a majestic tone of gentility.
I am so grateful.
Suddenly there is a sharp sound of the intake of air... Then, there is silence. The 'actor' is dead. I was not ready for that, I am not ready for death.
I take a sip of my half cup of coffee - 'half a cup'. This somehow is symbolic of my life. I am half ready. I am constantly half decided when it comes to decision making...
The steam of the coffee suddenly clouds my glasses.
I can't see. I am scared.
Attempting to distract myself from these overwhelming emotions, i open my packet of salt and vinegar crisps, cringing at the loud sound it makes. I feel guilty. I don't know why.
I take a sip of my half cup of coffee - 'half a cup'. This somehow is symbolic of my life. I am half ready. I am constantly half decided when it comes to decision making...
The steam of the coffee suddenly clouds my glasses.
I can't see. I am scared.
Attempting to distract myself from these overwhelming emotions, i open my packet of salt and vinegar crisps, cringing at the loud sound it makes. I feel guilty. I don't know why.
They replace the 'actor' for a dummy. Once again, i am grateful. The body is washed, so slowly, so intricate. The process is so intimate, i don't know whether i should feel ashamed or terrified. I am sympathetic towards the dummy, actually alluding 'it' to a human being. Remembering that I have subjected my whole life to being modest, only to be bare on a "standard body tray."
I shift my legs. They are getting numb from sitting down for too long. I don't like the feeling of numbness because not feeling reminds me of a sort of lifelessness - one that is strikingly similar to the thousands of dead bodies that surround me.
"Depending on the family preference, hair can be braided" says the woman whom I now associate tranquility with, despite her all black attire. I feel nostalgic. Braided hair reminds me of the childhood I am so desperate to revive.
I want to ask a question, but I don't dare raise my hand.
The final preparations are made and the body is wrapped in layers of cloth. Five layers of white cloth to be precise, ranging from 2-3 yards.
My mind drifts again. This time to the novel I have been writing my coursework on: 'The Great Gatsby'. Daisy wears white which is symbolic of coldness and a foreshadow of her association with Gatsby's death.
I don't like the colour white anymore.
White is empty, white is cold. White was once pure. White is now dark.
My mind drifts again. This time to the novel I have been writing my coursework on: 'The Great Gatsby'. Daisy wears white which is symbolic of coldness and a foreshadow of her association with Gatsby's death.
I don't like the colour white anymore.
White is empty, white is cold. White was once pure. White is now dark.
I look straight ahead - through the demonstration that is happening in front of me and take in the exterior setting. This place, this cemetery is so beautiful. I'm in awe of the clear windows which now projects a hopeful ray of sunlight. The sunlight which moments ago was freed by the clouds. I think of this as a sign, a reminder from my deity hinting to me that it will all be worth it. I want it to be worth it.
The woman tells us about a powder that is put on the layers of cloth to prevent insects nibbling away at the body. For the life of me i cannot remember the name of this powder... Comfeel? Camfil? Kamfeel?
Though the clear window I can see workers in the distance, wearing thick neon jackets to protect them from the coldness of the weather and that of death.
This place is so full of life!
I am awaken by the sounds of the seagulls and the various types of birds flying over the horizons. Big trees, small trees, green trees, yellow trees, bare trees. I am once again reminded of my childhood. The hyper effect that sweets had on me is somewhat parallel to the excited like effect the wind has on the trees. These contrasts slowly become overwhelming, reminding me that when I am dead life will just... Go on...
Though the clear window I can see workers in the distance, wearing thick neon jackets to protect them from the coldness of the weather and that of death.
This place is so full of life!
I am awaken by the sounds of the seagulls and the various types of birds flying over the horizons. Big trees, small trees, green trees, yellow trees, bare trees. I am once again reminded of my childhood. The hyper effect that sweets had on me is somewhat parallel to the excited like effect the wind has on the trees. These contrasts slowly become overwhelming, reminding me that when I am dead life will just... Go on...
I shiver at the thought of that. I don't want that. Maybe this makes me selfish. I do not care.
The hijab (headscarf) is put on the dummy. We return to him in the way that we have been instructed to do so our whole lives. I think back to the point when we were told that during this whole process, those who are washing the body are forbidden to see the intimate parts of the body with their eyes. Instead the hands are the guide... I am moved by this.
Finally, the finishing touches are made to the body, where there are two knots tied on each end (head and feet). This will make it easier for the body to be carried and put into the grave. I keep thinking about sweets. The wrapping of bounty from a celebration box is almost exactly what our bodies will look like when we are ready to be lowered down into the 6ft deep grave. In the centre of the body there is a separate piece of cloth that is tied like a bow. As if the body is a gift being passed onto someone. I mentally correct myself.
The body is a gift. The body is sacred. It belongs to The Lord.
The body is a gift. The body is sacred. It belongs to The Lord.
Oops, one of the demonstrators rushes to the side and grabs a cloth she forgot to add. This time, it is only white but instead is full of life with different colours: blue, maroon and cream (cream and white are not the same).
The cloth flutters whilst it's being out on top of the body. The sight of this is beautiful.
The cloth flutters whilst it's being out on top of the body. The sight of this is beautiful.
Someone asks a question.
"Can the body be perfumed?"
Yes, it can.
I like this.
This session is being concluded. I am partially relieved because my legs painfully ache. This time another woman is doing the speaking. I notice there is a bluntness to her tone of voice. I miss the other woman.
Another question is asked. Can we cry whilst we are doing this process on our loved ones. She quickly responds to this, clarifying the impossibility of not being emotive in this circumstance. Despite this she says we must try to control crying. I disagree, crying cannot be controlled.
Well, for me anyway.
Well, for me anyway.
We move on to the tour of the graves which is led by the man I thought had an South African accent (the stubborn part of me still does). I should have gotten boots because my flats are very unsuitable for this occasion. We walk by a tuck shop where there is a man who is buying refreshments. Later on I am told he lost a 9 year old boy.
I wish i could run back and tell him how very sorry i am for his loss. But i know from experience that this won't ebb away his grief.
I wish i could run back and tell him how very sorry i am for his loss. But i know from experience that this won't ebb away his grief.
We move along the beautiful sideway, where we stop. There is a different type of life here. There is an olive tree, pomegranate tree, a tree that grows ginger and there is even a palm tree. I am so awestruck by the way all this life flourishes in a 21 acre land of decomposing bodies.
The first section we are shown is the area where still born foetuses, and those up to 17 weeks are buried. The graves are all symmetrical, so perfectly lined up. They have no name plaques, these are nameless. Some of these have flowers on them, flowers that will soon wither like the rest of the bodies.
I want to scream, not cry because tears are silent.
Opposite this is the section where children up to 12 years are buried. My heart bleeds for the families who had to bury the children they thought would have buried them instead. These are the recognised - the ones with name plaques which faintly gives them a link with the world.
I am helplessly angry at this point.
Thankfully, we move forward towards the adult graves. I see two families within eye distance. The first is huddled towards a grave, facing the direction of the Holy site of Makkah reciting the words of The Almighty. The second however, is getting ready to leave. I assume it is the father who is holding the hands of a excited young girl - no more than 5 years old.
So clueless she is to the reality of the world.
I am helplessly angry at this point.
Thankfully, we move forward towards the adult graves. I see two families within eye distance. The first is huddled towards a grave, facing the direction of the Holy site of Makkah reciting the words of The Almighty. The second however, is getting ready to leave. I assume it is the father who is holding the hands of a excited young girl - no more than 5 years old.
So clueless she is to the reality of the world.
This, i am jealous of.
The man repeats to us that 6ft deep is the size that the grave is dug. I feel claustrophobic allofasudden, as i am leaning down looking at the grave.
We are now at the section where there are newly occupied graves. I feel connected to the recently deceased. No, actually i am connected to the recently deceased. They were once like me, i will be soon like them.
We are now at the section where there are newly occupied graves. I feel connected to the recently deceased. No, actually i am connected to the recently deceased. They were once like me, i will be soon like them.
The man concludes the tour with a final reminder of the reality that is guaranteed for us. He recites a few prayers and we are dismissed.
Again, I am grateful.
We hurry through the path which we arrived, and I take in my surroundings one last time. I want to visit my Grandmothers grave but i am too much of a coward. My mood is different now. I feel so much. I am drowning in an array of emotions. Eventually, I am saved by my legs. I have reached the car park and am driven away, still in a whirlwind of emotions.
Please know that I am not biased in any way. It's just that we just zoomed by another cemetery and within the brief couple of seconds my eyes overlooked it, I am reminded of the aesthetic contrast it has to the Gardens of peace.
The speed of the car fluctuates. I feel sick
I close my eyes. I
open them. I close them again.
I am grateful that I can do this.
I am grateful I am here.
Because so long as I am here, I am given the opportunity to be good.
To be good and to live good.
